Cut by Plumb
by Mistery-Girl21
Summary: When the woman of his dreams walked in his office, Edward was, to say the least, intrigued. A man's dream come true as she had no recollection of her past. They both want to know about her past life, but what if they don't like what they find?
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

She had promised herself she would make that call as soon as the plane landed. This trip had come out of nowhere and she had had no time to call. But some promises were meant to be broken, and destiny made himself known as the plane landed. She walked out to get a cab and the the gun pressed against her back.

**I will be updating every weekend, maybe two chapters at a time, depends how much I am able to write. I hope you find interest in the story, and continue to read.**

**Please feel free to leave a comment, PM me about the story, or REVIEW. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 1

Edward Cullen was slouched on his tiny desk trying to catch up with paperwork. He heard the shrill of the phone ringing in the other room, but ignored it as he typed up the reports that needed to be finished. Cullen Investigations wasn't a very successful enterprise, but it was enough to pay for its own standing. And no matter how much the leaky ceilings, the squeaky chairs, and the battered walls bothered him; he would not use his personal money to remodel the place. It was important that it payed for itself.

He'd be damned if he broke his own word to pay for a fixing on the ceiling. He was getting used to the steady drip, it was almost soothing. Almost.

He might be well off on the personal level, as he lived in a very nice apartment with all the luxury he was accustomed to. But right this moment, his business wasn't what he would call thriving. His greedy landlord had bumped up the rent. To top it off, his traitor of a secretary had left him the day before with the excuse that she needed to explore new horizons.

The phone ringed and he kept typing on his computer, slowly, since he wasn't very skilled. A smile spread on his face when his mothers voice filled the air. "Son, I don't know why on earth you have a phone if you won't bring yourself to use it. I have been calling you all afternoon. Your father wants to see you, and your sister has some news to share with the family. We expect you over tomorrow at 6 o'clock sharp. We miss you, Edward. Get yourself away from that horrible office of yours and come see your family, if you still remember you have one."

He could almost see the way his mothers chin would go up and how she would hang up the phone and sigh in resignation. Her only son, losing himself in a career that wouldn't take him anywhere. That's what she had told him when he decided to announce his choice. Alice had given him a bright smile behind their mothers back, and Rosalie had huffed and ignored them to continue filing her nails.

Putting his family deputes aside, he kept typing on his old computer, one key at a time. His handsome face scrunched in concentration. He had inherited his fathers looks. The clever green eyes that could go sharp as a knife, or soft as silk baby blanket, depending on his mood. His hair an untidy auburn mess that was beginning to get too long as his mother would say. His nose was the tiniest bit uneven from the time he had exchanged a few punches with his brother in law. His mouth was firm and also a little uneven from so many crooked grins.

He would prefer to be robust, but instead he was stuck with the smooth, dreamy looks that qualified him for the cover of _GQ_. For which he had actually posed in his early-twenties after the pressure of his little sister.

The phone in the reception area ringed again and he stood up cursing, but didn't head to answer it. Instead he headed towards the small refrigerator to get a drink. Sweat had trickled down his back and dampened his t-shirt.

This might not have been exactly what he'd expected when he decided to be a private investigator. He'd anticipated more excitement, but so far he had only done some domestic work and insurance. He found himself trying to remember why he'd picked this career path instead of something else and grinned. Being the black sheep of the family, he couldn't have done better. The world could do without him as a doctor, or a lawyer.

Without thinking he pulled on the fridges door and there was a loud noise and pieces of glass and brown liquid went in every direction. He swore and crouched to pick up the pieces, and swore again when a thin broken glass pierced his index finger.

When the woman walked in he was sucking his finger and wiping the floor with one hand as he managed to curse again, too preoccupied to look up.

She stood there by the door connected with the reception room, her eyes wide with shock, her hair and clothes soaked from the rain.

"I beg your pardon," she spoke in a hoary voice, as if she hadn't spoken in a long time. "I must have the wrong office." As she said it, she inched backward and those big, brown eyes shifted to the name printed at the door. With a hesitant expression, she looked back at him. "Are you Mr. Cullen?"

He couldn't speak, couldn't bring any words to formulate. He knew he was staring at her, but he couldn't help himself. His heart faltered and his knees went weak. All he could seem to think was _There you are, finally. What the hell took you so long?_

And because that was completely ridiculous, he put on a very cynical investigators expression on his face.

"Yeah," he remembered a handkerchief on his pocket and wrapped it around his bleeding finger."Just had a little accident here."

"I see." but all she was really seeing was his face. "I have come at a bad time. I do not have an appointment, I simply thought..."

"Seems like my calendar's clear."

He wanted her to come in, all the way in. Whatever that first absurd, unprecedented reaction of his, she was still a potential client. And surely no other dame who walked through his door had ever been more perfect.

She was a brunette and beautiful and bewildered. Her hair was wet, sleek down her back and wavy. Her eyes were bourbon brown, in a face that—though it could have used some color—was delicate as a fairy's. It was heart-shaped, the cheeks a gentle curve and the mouth was full, unpainted and solemn.

She'd ruined her suit and shoes in the rain. He recognized both as top-quality, that quietly exclusive look found only in designer salons. Against the wet blue silk of her suit, the canvas bag she clutched with both hands looked intriguingly out of place.

Damsel in distress, he mused, and his lips curved. Just what the doctor ordered.

"Why don't you come in, close the door, Miss...?"

Her heart bumped twice, hammer-hard, and she tightened her grip on the bag. "You're a private investigator?"

"That's what it says on the door." Edward smiled again, ruthlessly using the dimples while he watched her gnaw that lovely lower lip. Damned if he wouldn't like to gnaw on it himself.

And that response, he thought with a little relief, was a lot more like it. Lust was a feeling he could understand.

"Let's go back to my office." He surveyed the damage—broken glass, pools of soda. "I think I'm finished in here for now."

"All right." She took a deep breath, stepped in, then closed the door. She supposed she had to star somewhere.

Picking her way over the debris, she followed him into the adjoining room. It was furnished with little more than a desk and a couple of bargain-basement chairs. Well, she couldn't be choosy about décor, she reminded herself. She waited until he'd sat behind his desk, tipped back in his chair and smiled at her again in that quick, trust-me way.

"Do you—Could I—" She squeezed her eyes tight, centered herself again. "Do you have some credentials I could see?"

More intrigued, he took out his license, handed it to her. She wore two very lovely rings, one on each hand, he noticed. One was a square-cut citrine in an antique setting, the other a trio of colored stones. Her earrings matched the second ring, he noted when she tucked her hair behind her ear and studied his license as if weighing each printed word.

"Would you like to tell me what the problem is, Miss...?"

"I think—" She handed him back his license, then gripped the bag two-handed again. "I think I'd like to hire you." Her eyes were on his face again, as intently, as searchingly, as they had been on the license. "Do you handle missing-persons cases?"

Who did you lose, sweetheart? He wondered. He hoped, for the sake of the nice little fantasy that was building in his head, it wasn't a husband. "Yeah, I handle missing persons."

"Your, ah, rate?"

"Two-fifty a day, plus expenses." When she nodded, he slid over a legal pad, picked up a pencil. "Who do you want me to find?"

She took a long, shuddering breath. "Me. I need you to find me,"

**I will be updating every weekend, maybe two chapters at a time, depends how much I am able to write. I hope you find interest in the story, and continue to read.**

**Please feel free to leave a comment, PM me about the story, or REVIEW. Thank you.**


	3. Chapter 2

_She took a long, shuddering breath. "Me. I need you to find me,"_

Watching her, he tapped the pencil against the pad. "Looks like I already have. You want me to bill you, or do you want to pay now?"

"No." she could feel it cracking. She'd held on so long—or at least it seemed so long—but now she could feel that branch she'd gripped when the world dropped out from under her begin to crack. "I don't remember. Anything. I don't—" Her voice began to hitch. She took her hands off the bag in her lap to press them to her face. "I don't know who I am. I don't know who I am." And then she was weeping the words into her hands. "i don't know who I am."

Edward had a lot of experience with hysterical woman. His job required him to. So he rose from his desk, armed himself with a box of tissues and crouched in front of her.

"Here now, sweetheart. Don't worry. It's going to be just fine." With gentle expertise, he mopped at her face as he spoke. He patted her hand, stroked her hair, studied her swimming eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't—"

"Just cry it out," he told her. "You'll feel better for it." Rising, he went into the closet-size bathroom and poured her a paper cup of water.

When she had a lapful of damp tissues and three crushed paper cups, she let out a jerky sigh. "I'm sorry. Thank you. I do feel better." Her cheeks pinkened a bit with embarrassment as she gathered up the tissues and mangled cups. Edward took them from her, dumped them in the wastebasket, then rested a hip on the corner of his desk.

"You want to tell me about it now?"

She nodded, then linked her fingers and began to twist them together. "I—There isn't that much to tell. I just don't remember anything. Who I am, what I do, where I'm from. Friends, family. Nothing." Her breath caught again, and she released it slowly. "Nothing," she repeated.

It was a dream come true, he thought, the beautiful woman without a past coming out of the rain and into his office. He flicked a glance at the bag she still held in her lap. They'd get to that in a minute. "Why don't you tell me the first thing you do remember?

"I woke up in a room—a little hotel on Sixteenth Street." Letting her head rest back against the chair, she closed her eyes and tried to bring things into focus. "Even that's unclear. I was curled up on the bed, and there was a chair propped under the doorknob. It was raining. I could hear the rain. I was groggy and disoriented, but my heart was pounding so hard, as if I'd wakened from a nightmare. I still had my shoes on. I remember wondering why I'd gone to bed with my shoes on. The room was dim and stuffy. All the windows were closed. I was so tired, logy, so I went into the bathroom to splash water on my face."

Now she opened her eyes, looked into his. "I saw my face in the mirror. The ugly little mirror with black splotches where it needed to be resilvered. And it meant nothing to me. The face.: She lifted her hand, ran it over her cheek, her jaw. "My face meant nothing to me. I couldn't remember the name that went with the face, or the thoughts, or the plans or the past. I don't know how I'd gotten to that horrid room. I looked through the drawers and the closet, but there was nothing. No clothes. I was afraid to stay there, but I didn't know where to go."

"The bag? Was that all you had with you?"

"Yes." Her hand clutched at the straps again. "No purse, no wallet, no keys. This was in my pocket." She reached into the pocket o her jacket and took out a small scrap of notepaper.

Edward took it from her, skimmed the quick scrawling writing.

_Bella, Sat at 7, right? -J_

"I don't know what it means. I saw a newspaper. Today's Friday."

"Mmm. Write it down," Edward said, handing her a pad and pen.

"What?"

"Write down what it says on the note."

"Oh." Gnawing her lip again, she complied.

Though he didn't have to compare the two to come to his conclusions, he took the pad from her, set it and the note side by side. "Well, you're not J, so I'd say you're Bella."

She blinked, swallowed. "What?"

"From the look of J's writing, he or she;s a lefty. You're right-handed. You've got neat, simple penmanship, J's got an impatient scrawl. The note was in you're pocket. Odds are you're Bella."

"Bella." She tried to absorb the name, the hope of it, the feel and taste of identity. But it was dry and unfamiliar. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It means we have something to call you, and someplace to start. Tell me what you did next."

Distracted she blinked at him. "Oh, I... There was a phone book in the room. I looked up detective agencies."

"Why'd you pick mine?"

"The name. It sounded strong." She managed her first smile, and though it was weak, it was there. "I started to call, but then I thought I might get put off, and if I just showed up...So I waited in the room until office hours, then I walked for a little while, then I got a cab. And here I am."

"Why didn't you go to a hospital? Call a doctor?"

"I thought about it." She looked down at her hands. " I just didn't."

She was leaving out big chunks, he mused. Going around his desk, he opened a drawer, pulled out a candy bar. "You didn't say anything about stopping for breakfast." He watched her study the candy he offered with puzzlement and what appeared to be amusement. "This'll hold you until we can do better."

"Thank you." With neat, precise movements, she unwrapped the chocolate bar. Maybe part of the fluttering in her stomach was hunger. "Mr. Cullen, I may have people worried about me. Family, friends. I may have a child. I don't know." Her eyes deepened, fixed on a point over his shoulder. "I don't think I do. I can't believe anyone could forget her own child. But people may be worried, wondering what happened to me. Why I didn't come home last night.

"You could have gone to the police."

"I didn't want to go to the police." This time, her voice was clipped, definite. "Not until...No, I don't want to involve the police." She wiped her fingers on a fresh tissue, then began to tear it up into strips. "Someone may be looking for me who isn't a friend, who isn't family. Who isn't concerned with my well-being. I don't know why I feel that way, I only know I'm afraid. It's more than just not remembering. But I can't understand anything, until I know who I am."

Maybe it was those big, soft, moist eyes staring up at him, or the damsel-in-distress nerves of her restless hands. Either way, he couldn't resist showing off, just a little.

"I can tell you a few things already. You're an intelligent woman, early-to-mid-twenties. You have a good eye for color and style, and enough pf a bankroll to indulge it with Italian shoes and silk suits. You're neat, probably organized. You prefer the understated to the obvious. Since you don't evade well, I'd say you're an equally poor liar. You've got a good head on your shoulders, you think things through. You don't panic easily. And you like chocolate."

She balled the empty candy wrapper in her hand. "Why do you assume all that?"

"You speak well, even when you're frightened. You thought about how you were going to handle this and went through all the steps, logically. You dress well—quality over flair. You have a good manicure, but no flashy polish. Your jewelry is unique, interesting, but not ornate. And you've been holding back information since you walked through the door because you haven't decided yet how much you're going to trust me."

"How much should I trust you?"

"You came to me."

She acknowledged that, rose and walked to his window. The rain drummed, underscoring the vague headache that hovered behind her eyes. "I don't recognize the city," she murmured. "Yet I feel I should. I know where I am, because I saw a newspaper, the _Washington Post_. I know what the White House and Capitol look like. I know the monuments—but I could have seen them on television, or in a book."

Though it was wet from incoming rain, she rested her hands on the still, appreciated the coolness there. "I feel as though I dropped out of nowhere into that ugly hotel room. Still, I know how to read and write and walk and talk. The cabdriver had the radio on, and I recognized music. I recognized trees. I wasn't surprised that rain was wet. I know your eyes are green. And when the rain clears, I know the sky will be blue."

She sighed once."So I didn't drop out of nowhere. There are things I know, things I'm sure of. But my own face means nothing to me, and what's behind the face is blank. I may have hurt someone, done something. I may be selfish and calculating, even cruel. I may have a husband I cheat on, or neighbors I've alienated."

She turned back then, and her face was tight and set, a tough contrast to the fragility of lashes still wet from tears. "I don't know if I'm going to like who you find when you find me, Mr. Cullen, but I need to know." She set the bag on his desk, hesitated briefly, then opened it. "I think I have enough to meet your fee."

He came from money, the kind that aged and increased and propagated over generations. But even with his background, he'd never seen so much in one place at one time. The canvas bag was filled with wrapped stacks of hundred-dollar bills—all crisp and clean. Fascinated, Edward took out a stack, flipped through. Yes, indeed, he mused, every one of the bills had Ben Franklin's homely and dignified face.

"I'd have to guess about a million," he murmured.

"One million, two hundred thousand," Bella shuddered as she looked into the bag. "I counted the stacks. I don't know where I got it or why I had it with me. I may have stolen it."

Tears began to swim again as she turned away. "It could be ransom money. I could be involved in a kidnapping. There could be a child somewhere, being held, and I've take ransom money. I just—"

"Let's add a vivid imagination to those other qualities."

It was the cool and casual tone of his voice that had her turning back. "There's a fortune in there."

"A million two isn't much of a fortune these days." He dropped the money back in the bag. "And I'm sorry, Bella, you just don't fit the cold, calculating kidnapper type."

"But you can check. You can find out, discreetly, if there's been an abduction."

"Sure. If the cops are involved, I can get something."

"And if there's been a murder?" Struggling to stay calm, she reached into the bag. This time she took a .38.

A cautious man, Edward nudged the barrel aside, took it from her. It was a Smith and Wesson, and at his quick check, he discovered it was fully loaded. "How'd this feel in your hand?"

"I don't understand."

" How'd it feel when you picked it up? The weight, the shape?"

Though she was baffled by the question, she did her best to answer thoroughly. "Not as heavy as I thought it should. It seemed that something that had that kind of power would have more weight, more substance. I suppose it felt awkward."

"The pen didn't."

This time she simply dragged her hands through her hair. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've just showed you over a million dollars and a gun. You're talking about pens."

"When I handed you a pen to write, it didn't feel awkward. You didn't have to think about it. You just took it and used it.." He smiled a little and slipped the gun into his pocket, instead of the bag. I think you're a lot more accustomed to holding a pen than a .38 special."

There was some relief in that, the simple logic of it. But it didn't chase away all the clouds. "Maybe you're right. It doesn't mean I didn't use it."

"No, it doesn't. And since you've obviously put your hands all over it, we can't prove you didn't. I can check and see if it's registered and to whom."

Her eyes lit with hope. "It could be mine." She reached out, took his hand, squeezed it in a gesture that was thoughtless, and natural. "We'd have a name then. I'd know my name then. I didn't realize it could be so simple."

"It may be simple."

"You're right." She released his hand, began to pace. Her movements were smooth, controlled. "I'm getting ahead of myself. But it helps so much you see, so much more than I imagined, just to tell someone. Someone who knows how to figure things out. I don't know if I'm very good at puzzles. Mr. Cullen—"

"Edward," he said, intrigued that he could find her economical movements so sexy. "Let's keep it simple."

"Edward." She threw in a breath, let it out. "It's nice to call someone by name. You're the only person I know, the only person I remember having a conversation with. I can't tell you how odd that is, and, right now, how comforting."

"Why don't we make me the first person you remember having a meal with? One candy bar isn't much of a breakfast. You look worn out, Bella."

It was so odd to hear him use that name when he looked at her. Because it was all she had, she struggled to respond to it. "I'm tired," she admitted. "It doesn't feel as if I've slept much. I don't know when I've eaten last."

"How do you feel about scrambled eggs?"

The smile wisped around her mouth again. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"Well,let's find out." He started to pick up the canvas bag, but she laid a hand over his on the straps.

"There's something else." She didn't speak for a moment, but kept her eyes on his, as she had when she first walked in. searching, measuring, deciding. But there was, she knew, really no choice. He was all she had. "Before anything else, I need to ask for a promise."

"You hired me, Bella, I work for you."

"I don't know if what I'm going to ask you is completely ethical, but5 I still need your word. If during the course of your investigation you discover I've committed a crime, I need your word that you'll find out everything you can, all the circumstances, all the facts, before you turn me over to the police."

He angled his head. "You assume I'll turn you in."

"If I've broken a law, I'll expect you to turn me over to the police. But I need all the reasons before you do. I need to understand all the whys, the hows, the who. Will you give me your word on that?"

"Sure." He took the hand she held out. It was delicate as porcelain, steady as a rock. And she, he thought, whoever she was, was a fascinating combination of the fragile and the steady. "No cops until we know all of it. You can trust me, Bella."

"You're trying to make me comfortable with the name." Again without thinking, in a move that was as innate as the color of her eyes, she kissed his cheek. "You're very kind."

Kind enough, she thought, that he would hold her now if she asked. And she so desperately wanted to be held, soothed, to be promised that her world would snap back into focus again any moment. But she needed to stand on her own. She could only hope she was the kind of woman who stood on her own feet and faced her own problems.

**I will be updating every weekend, maybe two chapters at a time, depends how much I am able to write. I hope you find interest in the story, and continue to read.**

**Please feel free to leave a comment, PM me about the story, or REVIEW. Thank you.**


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